Hot Schemes
Sherryl Woods
Copyright
Hot Schemes
Copyright © 1994 by Sherryl Woods
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
In any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
Electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795317330
Contents
Acknowledgments
eForeword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
A very special thanks to Isaura Pino and Susana Betancourt for speaking Spanish far better than I do and for keeping the emotions in this book honest. And to Heather Graham, Joan Johnston, Carla Neggers, Meg O’Brien, and Sally Schoeneweiss—all of whom know how to turn a phrase—for listening to me yell when my words aren’t flowing exactly right. And last, but definitely not least, to Damaris Rowland—an extraordinary editor—for her unsinkable faith in Molly and Michael.
eForeword
Dear Readers:
One of the joys—and challenges—of living in Miami is its multiethnic nature. After living in Miami for a few years, I took Spanish at Miami-Dade Community College. Other than speaking with a French accent leftover from college, I thought I was beginning to grasp the vocabulary at least, rather well. I quickly learned, however, that admitting to speaking Spanish even a little—un poco—was a mistake. Inevitably those to whom I made this admission chattered at a pace that left me reeling. I adapted much more quickly to Cuban food, which I love.
The sorrow and anger of Cuban exile, though, were much more difficult to comprehend. As a newspaper columnist who wrote about television and radio, I was quickly plunged into this world when Cuban radio commentator Emilio Milian’s car was bombed, very nearly killing him. Other bombings followed during the seventies, protests of a business’s dealings with Cuba or of a gallery’s showing of works by artists still living in Cuba. The controversy over Castr’s stranglehold on Cuba continues to be hotly debated today, but it has become more a matter of passionate beliefs, than violent acts.
I hope through Molly and Michael, you are able to experience just some for the emotions felt by Miami’s Cuban exiles and their Anglo neighbors. As always, I’d love to hear from you. Please contact me via email at [email protected] or via my website www.sherrylwoods.com.
My best, as always,
Sherryl Woods
CHAPTER
ONE
The deafening music pulsed to a Latin beat at Sundays by the Bay, a favorite weekend watering hole of Miami boaters and the singles crowd. Molly DeWitt had long since given up any attempts to carry on a conversation with Detective Michael O’Hara, whose attention seemed to be focused more on the horizon than on her anyway. His beer sat untouched, warming in the sun. As near as she could tell with his eyes shaded by his favorite reflective sunglasses, he hadn’t even noticed the five scantily clad women at the next table. That was how she knew he was far more worried than he was letting on.
“Still no sign of your uncle’s boat?” she shouted over the music.
He glanced at her briefly, shook his head, then turned his attention back to the water. His expression was more somber than she’d ever seen it, even in the midst of some particularly gruesome homicide investigations.
Molly understood his concern. It was now after noon. Tío Miguel should have been back by eleven o’clock, noon at the latest, from his regular Sunday fishing trip. On days he took out charters, he might stay out longer, but Sundays were personal. On Sundays he stayed only long enough to catch enough snapper or grouper for the family’s dinner, plus extra to share with friends up and down the block in their Little Havana neighborhood.
The rest of the week Tío Miguel worked nights delivering the morning newspaper door-to-door, then took out his occasional small fishing charters, usually wealthy Latin Americans and their Miami business associates. One or two days a week he worked on the boat, fiddling with the engine to assure top performance, polishing the trim, cleaning it from stem to stern. Though the charter boat wasn’t new or top of the line, it was his most prized possession and he cared for it with passionate devotion.
A small, olive-complexioned man with a deep tan and dark-as-midnight eyes, Miguel Garcia had an unmistakable wiry strength even though he was about to turn sixty-five. Molly had met him several months earlier at dinner at Tío Pedro’s, yet another of Michael’s uncles. She had been instantly charmed by his awkward, soft-spoken blending of English and Spanish and the pride in his voice as he talked of Michael’s accomplishments in Miami.
Tío Miguel and Tío Pedro and their wives—both sisters of Michael’s mother—had preceded Michael to Miami when Fidel Castro succeeded Batista in Cuba. They had left behind homes, family, and once-thriving careers in the hope of regaining freedom. It was to them, via one of the famed Pedro Pan airlifts, that Michael’s mother had sent him, alone, at the age of five.
Though Molly had known many other exiles, some successful, some barely making it, none had touched her quite the way Tío Miguel had. When he talked of his native land, there had been such sadness in his eyes and something more, an anger perhaps, that his homeland was out of reach to him now. Unlike his brother-in-law Pedro, who owned a flourishing Cuban restaurant and whose children were now involved in careers of their own, Tío Miguel had never fully adapted to his new land.
Like so many other Cuban exiles who had come to Miami in the sixties and who had expected to go back at any moment, Tío Miguel had struggled with English. Fortunately, he lived in a community where shopkeepers spoke Spanish, where parish priests and government officials spoke his language. He had settled for taking menial jobs to support his family, always with the fragile hope that he would return home to a free Cuba someday. As time passed, hope had faded, replaced now by sorrow and the faintest traces of anger and bitterness.
Molly glanced at Michael and saw that his attention was still avidly focused on Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic beyond.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?” she said.
“He’s never been this late before, not on Sunday when he knows Tía Pilar will be waiting and the family will be gathering after Mass.”
“Does he have a radio on the boat?”
Michael nodded.
“Then he can call the Coast Guard if he’s in trouble. I’m sure he’s okay. He probably found a hot spot where the fish were really biting and didn’t want to come in yet.”
“Maybe,” he said tersely. He stood up. “I’m going inside to make a call. Keep an eye out for him, will you?”
“Of course.”
Though Tío Miguel had invited Michael, Molly, and her son, Brian, to come fishing with him some Sunday, they had never taken him up on it. Brian had brought it up once or twice, but Molly had discouraged him from pressing Michael about it. Now as she watched the endless rows of sailboats, yacht
s, and fishing boats dotting the water beyond the marina, she realized she had no idea what his boat was named, much less what it looked like. Except for those with billowing sails, they all looked pretty much alike to her, especially from this distance.
When Michael finally returned, he looked more tense than he had before.
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Tía Pilar said she was expecting him home by now, that he’d said nothing about being later than usual. There was something else in her voice, though, that convinced me I’m right to be worried. I called the Coast Guard. They haven’t had any distress calls, but they’re going out to take a look.” He didn’t have to say that he’d called in a favor to accomplish that. He drummed his fingers nervously on the table and took another sip of beer. “Damn, I can’t stand this. Come on.”
“Where?”
“I’ll run you home, then come back and rent a boat. I’m going out myself. I’ve been fishing with him enough. I probably know better than the Coast Guard does where to start looking.” He threw some money on the table, then slipped between the tightly packed tables along the edge of the marina.
They were nearly at the car when Molly touched his arm. “Michael, I want to go with you,” she said, unable to ignore his anxiety. She’d learned long ago that Michael was incapable of asking for help, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use a little support from a friend once in a while. Predictably, though, he was already shaking his stubborn Cuban-Irish head.
“No. If there’s trouble, I don’t want you involved.”
“What sort of trouble?” she said, puzzled by the implication that something other than an engine breakdown might have delayed Tío Miguel.
He just shook his head again, his expression more tight-lipped and obstinate than usual. “You’re going home.”
Molly made up in determination what she lacked in stature. And when someone she cared about was in trouble, she didn’t want to waste time debating her right to help. She planted herself in front of him, eyes blazing.
“Dammit, Michael O’Hara, don’t you pull any of this Latin machismo stuff with me. Two pairs of eyes will be better than one out there. If your uncle is hurt, I might be able to help. You won’t be able to manage him and the boat at the same time.”
Apparently he saw that arguing would simply waste more precious time. That was the only explanation she could think of for his quick, grudging nod. He changed directions so quickly, she almost lost her footing trying to keep up with him.
Halfway down the marina’s first dock, a middle-aged fisherman was just unloading his catch. He greeted Michael with a nod. “Hola.”
Michael began talking to him in Spanish. The only thing Molly understood for certain was Tío Miguel’s name, but the man’s head bobbed in agreement.
“He’ll take us out,” Michael told her, already following the man onto the boat. He held out his hand to help Molly aboard. “He and my uncle are friends. Tí’s slip is just two down,” he said, gesturing toward the empty space. “He says my uncle went out as usual about dawn.”
“Does Tío Miguel usually fish in the same place?” Molly asked.
“More or less. We might have to do some cruising around though. I assume you don’t get seasick. The water looks a little choppy today.”
“Let’s just say it’s probably best if we don’t put the idea into my head,” she said just as the powerful engine started throbbing beneath them. Her stomach churned, then settled a bit as they eased away from the dock and into open water. Fresh air replaced gas fumes as they chugged out of the harbor. She tried to ignore the thick, dark clouds gathering in the west and the threat they represented.
“You okay?” Michael asked, removing his sunglasses to peer at her more closely. “You looked a little green there for a minute.”
“I’m fine now.”
“I want to get up front to help Raúl watch for the boat. You’ll be okay back here?”
Molly nodded. “What’s the name of the boat? I’ll watch from here.”
“The Niña Pilar.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “We’ll find him, Michael.”
“I hope so,” he said, and turned abruptly, but not before she’d noted the tense set of his jaw and the deepening worry in his eyes in that instant before he’d slipped his sunglasses back into place.
Not only was he Tío Miguel’s namesake, but the two shared a special bond because of Michael’s young age when his mother had sent him to America to live with his aunts and uncles. That, combined with the fact that Michael had never known his own Irish-American father, had cemented their relationship. The closeness was not something Michael ever spoke of, but she had learned over the last months to read the emotions in his eyes, even when his words revealed nothing. If something had happened to Tío Miguel, Michael would be devastated, as would the rest of the close-knit family.
Under the blinding glare of the early-afternoon summer sun, a fine mist of salty water dried on Molly’s skin almost as soon as it landed, leaving her skin gritty. As the boat chugged into deeper seas, the water turned from a glistening silver to a murky green, then purple, darkened from above by the bank of nearly black clouds rolling in, dumping sheets of rain in the distance and hiding the land from sight.
Whether it was due to the violence of the approaching storm or Michael’s anxiety, Molly grew increasingly uneasy as the boat rocked over the choppy waves. All the other boats were making for land, while they continued to head out to sea.
No longer able to stand being left alone, she made her way forward on the slippery deck, clinging to the metal railing as she climbed up to join Michael and Raúl. While the middle-aged Cuban man steered against the powerful northerly currents, a huge cigar clamped between his teeth, Michael kept a pair of borrowed binoculars trained on the horizon.
Molly clung to a railing as the wind ripped at her clothes and tangled her hair. “Any sign of him?”
“Nothing. Raúl’s heading south.”
Molly’s uneasiness mounted. “South? Toward Cuba?”
Michael nodded.
Suddenly dozens of stories flashed through her mind, stories about ill-fated missions against Castro by exiles fanatical in their patriotism and their determination to reclaim their homeland. “Michael?”
He slowly lowered the binoculars and turned toward her, his expression grim.
“You don’t believe he went fishing today, do you?”
“I hope to God I’m wrong, but no.”
“But surely he wouldn’t …”
“He would,” Michael said tersely. “The goddamned fool would. He’s been involved with some underground paramilitary group for years. I looked into them once for Tía Pilar. I decided they were harmless enough, not like Alpha Sixty-six or Comandos L.”
Molly recognized the names of two of the most active organizations reputed to carry out terrorist bombings and other clandestine operations against Castro and his supporters. She shuddered to think of the implications had he belonged to one of those. Another group she’d heard of, the one Michael hadn’t mentioned, was Brigade 2506, made up of men who had survived the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. Revered by exiles, the Bay of Pigs veterans claimed to be no longer involved in commando raids, though one of its most prominent members continued to operate a training camp in the county.
“Dammit,” Michael swore. “I thought that eventually he would see that there are better ways to end Castro’s dictatorship, especially with the fall of communism in the rest of the world.”
“But why now, after all this time?” Molly said, unable to imagine the sheer folly of what Michael was suggesting. “You must be wrong. I’m sure he just got caught in a squall or something. He wouldn’t try to invade Cuba on his own, for heaven’s sakes.”
“You don’t understand what it’s been like for him. You can’t. Not even I fully understand it. Cuba—the Cuba he remembers, anyway—is in his soul. It’s as if some vital part of him has been carved away. W
henever new exiles come, he always meets with them, soaking up their news of Cuba like a sponge. For days afterward, his melancholy deepens.”
The sadness, Molly thought. That explained the sorrow that perpetually shadowed Tío Miguel’s eyes. And Michael was right. His heartache was something she had no way of fully comprehending. She had always lived in her homeland, and even though she no longer lived in Virginia where she’d grown up, she could go back anytime she wished.
“Would he have gone alone, though?” she asked. “Wouldn’t there have been others?”
“More than likely, though Raúl says he has heard nothing of such plans. Such men operate in secret, but there is almost always gossip.”
As the boat churned through the choppy waters, they emerged beneath bluer skies. The wind settled into little more than a breeze that barely stirred the humid tropical air. But even with the improved weather, the tension didn’t lessen as the afternoon wore on.
The one question Molly didn’t dare to ask was whether Raúl would risk carrying them all the way into Cuban waters. Nor was she sure she wanted to know whether Michael would allow him to do any less. Fortunately, with nothing but open water in all directions, Molly had no real sense of how close she might be to having both questions answered. Cuba was ninety-six miles from Key West, a hundred and fifty miles from Miami. Unused to nautical speed, she couldn’t even be sure how long it would take them to cover that distance.
For all she knew there was little purpose to the zigzagging course they seemed to be on as the summer sun slipped below the horizon in a blaze of orange.
“There!” Michael said eventually, gesturing to Raúl as he kept his binoculars pinned on some tiny speck in the dimming light of a July sunset.
To Molly the boat in the distance was indistinguishable from dozens of others they had seen since leaving the marina. Only as they drew closer did she realize that the boat’s engine was still, that its movement was propelled by no more than the drifting currents.
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